


If you want me, come and claim me

by wolfwithwoodenteeth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon is Jon, Post-Canon, and he's still a bastard, because I say so, but we're not accepting the part where Jon Snow is supposed to be Aegon Targaryen, not that it really matters, sort of show-canon compliant, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-30 08:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13947909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfwithwoodenteeth/pseuds/wolfwithwoodenteeth
Summary: Written for Day 4 of the Jonsa Drabble Fest - Steal meAfter the parentage reveal, Jon and Sansa confess their feelings.Later, when the war is won and Daenerys heads south again to finally take the Iron Throne, Jon decides the best way to protect his family and the North is to comply when she asks (demands, he knows) that he come with her.Daenerys dies in a tragic accident soon after, but instead of being granted his wish to return to Winterfell, Jon is offered the crown, and ever mindful of his duty, he accepts.Soon, the Southron lords start insisting their King should take a wife, but Jon keeps putting it off. He's sacrificed so much, they'll have to allow him this single whim. For there's only one woman he wants, and she's sworn a vow never to return South again...***Title from the poem 'To love a poet' from S.E. Wells' 'Master of Storms'





	If you want me, come and claim me

**Author's Note:**

> I came across a post about Matilda of Flanders on Tumblr. Apparently she refused William the Conqueror's marriage proposal because he was a bastard. 
> 
> Obviously I've changed William's reaction here. I'm not having Jon drag Sansa from her horse by her hair.

He's sent an emissary, some young Southron lordling with thin sandy hair and a weak chin. His eyes keep flitting at her as if he's never seen a woman before as he recites Jon's proposal.

Slowly, she glances around the room as she contemplates her answer, thanking the Old Gods that Arya isn't here. She expresses her gratitude and sighs ostentatiously, feigning deep regret as she declares: "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the eldest trueborn daughter of a high lord and the lady of this house. I could never consider wedding a bastard king."

The boy lordling stares at her with eyes large as saucers. "Is that the answer you wish me to carry back to His Grace, the King, my lady?"

She smoothes out her skirts before looking at him: "It is. But you may add to that: 'If you want me, come and claim me.'"

***

She's walking in the Godswood, the only place she can ever be alone, when a hand clamps over her mouth and an arm is locked around her waist, pulling her flush against a warm solid form, but she doesn't scream. They may call him a Targaryen now, but he still smells of snow.

Instinctively, her body has tensed up, but she's already relaxing into his touch. She hates how weak she still is in his arms, even after all these years.

He nuzzles her hair, and his lips ghost over her bare neck. "Sansa," he groans as he trails the fingers of his burnt hand back over her jaw, fisting them into her hair.

"Jon," she finally acknowledges him, but she won't grant him the pleasure of giving in so easily. "What's the meaning of this?"

"I'm claiming you," he growls.

She's breathless, but she manages to sound cool when she says: "Who says I wish to be claimed?"

He barks out a sharp laugh. "I know a challenge when I hear one."

"Do you?"

"Aye." He presses closer, coaxing her to start walking.

"Where are you taking me?" 

"The Heart Tree."

"I'm not marrying you," she objects.

"Oh, indeed you're not," he chuckles, his hot breath fanning over her ear. "I'm stealing you. May the Old Gods be my witness!"

They've reached their destination. Roughly, he turns her around in his arms and then he's kissing her, her treacherous body gladly surrendering to every touch.

Soon, she's on her back, bodice ripped to shreds and her skirts rucked up like some common slattern. His mouth and fingers play her body like a fiddle, and she's sopping wet and aching for him by the time he stretches her open. 

Later, when she's cradled in his arms, head pillowed on his chest, she yields. "Alright," she says. "I'll marry you. But I'm not spending the rest of my days in King's Landing."

"If the Queen won't come to court, court will come to the Queen," he mumbles and presses a kiss to her hair.

 


End file.
